The Sacrifice (59 page)

Scott thought about the beautiful symmetry of Kay's face. He couldn't comprehend it marred.

“What will she look like?”

“On the right side there won't be any difference. On the left side, she will have scars that can be helped with plastic surgery, but we don't know the extent of nerve damage. It could be mild or as bad as a severe stroke victim.”

“How bad is severe?”

“Her eye might droop, her cheek sag, and her mouth not respond normally, causing slurred speech and difficulty keeping certain types of food in her mouth. A full smile would be impossible.”

“Oh, no,” Scott groaned.

“It could have been worse. One inch difference and she probably would have died from a bullet to her brain.”

Scott knew the doctor was right, but he ached for Kay.

“Does she know any of this?”

“No, she's heavily sedated.”

The next morning Scott watched scenes from Catawba on the national news. It was odd seeing news reporters from all the major networks standing in places that had been familiar to him since he was a boy. The most popular spot for the cameras was a flat place by the flagpole in front of the high school. His own picture appeared frequently. It was a pre–law school photo and wasn't his most flattering likeness. His hair was in a military cut, and he looked like he wanted to spit at the camera. It saddened him when Frank's face flashed onto the screen. His parents were in seclusion, but the cameramen filmed the big house where Frank and his father lived.

The photo of Kay was the same one he'd seen in the yearbook in Dr. Lassiter's office. When it appeared on the screen, the announcer incorrectly identified her as a history teacher and said she had “serious head injuries.” There weren't any photos of Tao, but the reporters made up for it by talking about the Hmong people.

The public relations director for the hospital came into the room and asked Scott if he wanted him to arrange an interview.

“No. Tell them I don't have anything to add to the official report.”

Scott's thoughts were on Kay, not sound bites. He knew that people wanted to hear from the person who disarmed the bomb and was present in the hallway, but he wasn't sure he understood it himself. The sequence of events was clear: shots were fired; he cut the right wires; Tao placed himself in harm's way; Frank died. The reporters didn't need him to tell them the facts, and he didn't feel capable of analyzing what had happened. Something else was going on in those minutes, and Scott didn't have the words to express or explain it.

It was late in the afternoon before he convinced a nurse to wheel him up to Kay's room. It was painful to move his leg, but he pretended it didn't hurt too badly when he made an easy transfer from the bed to the wheelchair. All the weights he'd lifted were having a practical impact besides increasing his shirt size.

Kay was on the next floor. He was nervous in the elevator. The door opened, and the nurse wheeled him down the hall. Kay's mother was standing outside the doorway of the room talking with a doctor. She was the same as he remembered, only grayer and showing the strain of the past thirty-six hours. She saw Scott, stepped forward, and gave him a quick hug.

“Hello, Scott. How are you feeling?”

“Okay. I'd like to see Kay.”

“She's asleep, but you can peek into the room.”

Mrs. Laramie held open the door so the nurse could push him inside. Kay was lying motionless on her back. The doctor was correct. The right side of her face was perfect. Her cheek was pale, but she looked the same as when they sat across from each other eating filet mignon at the restaurant in Charlotte. The left side of her face was covered with bandages. Scott stared, drinking in her image, glad she was alive.

The nurse started pulling him out of the room. He held up his hand and whispered, “No, not yet.”

Kay heard the sound and opened her right eye. She turned her head slightly, saw him, and the light of recognition came on. She tried to smile, and Scott saw that the slight upward curve of her lips stopped toward the left side of her mouth.

“Hi,” she said weakly. “Come here.”

Her lips didn't close properly to make the
m
sound. He rolled himself forward until he was beside her head.

“You don't have to talk,” he said. “I just wanted to see you.”

She blinked her eye. “Hold my hand,” she whispered.

Once again, the words weren't distinct, but there was no doubt what she meant. Scott reached up and put his right hand on top of hers. Her hand was cool and white against the sheets. It felt so fragile, as if it would crack if he tried to squeeze it. She nodded slightly and closed her eyes.

Scott sat motionless, trying to will the strength that was in him to flow into her. He didn't move until her breathing was deep and even.

47

It is never too late to give up our prejudices.

H
ENRY
D
AVID
T
HOREAU

S
cott was out of the hospital in two days and back at work by the following week. It was difficult for him to navigate the stairs, but he could make it if he took his time. Kay would be in the hospital for a few more days. She'd already had a second round of surgery.

The media blitz that deluged Blanchard County for the first thirty-six hours evaporated as quickly as it fell. Scott decided not to return phone calls from reporters, and the initial flood of requests reduced to a trickle. On the national level, the incident at Catawba High School became stale news and joined the ranks of statistics on violence in American schools. The name of the lawyer who disarmed the bomb at a high school in North Carolina would soon be a difficult trivia question.

Of course, Catawba itself was still reeling from the threat to the lives of its young people. Some politicians wanted to install metal detectors and use high-school health classes as a forum to give psychological testing that would tip off administrators and identify students with a propensity for violence. The latter suggestion produced the threat of a lawsuit from the ACLU chapter in Charlotte. The purchase of metal detectors was placed on the agenda for the local school board.

Scott was at his desk when the receptionist buzzed him.

“Lynn Davenport from the district attorney's office on line 4.”

Scott picked up the receiver.

“I'm not sure what to say,” the D.A. began. Her voice was so different Scott wasn't sure it was the same person.

He waited.

“Oh, well, I won't try,” she said. “I'm calling because the department of corrections has a space for Lester Garrison. He leaves tomorrow. We'll send a deputy to pick him up at his house. Make sure he's there at two o'clock.”

Scott thought for a second. “Could his father bring him to the sheriff 's office?”

“Yes, so long as he's here by two-thirty. We have three inmates to transfer to different facilities tomorrow, and they leave at that time.”

Scott called the Garrisons' number and learned from Thelma that Harold was on a trip. Lester hadn't arrived home from school.

“Lester leaves for the boot-camp program tomorrow,” Scott said in as cheery a voice as he could manage.

“Tomorrow?” the old woman said faintly. “Who's going to take him?”

After a few moments of awkward silence, Scott said, “I'll be by at two o'clock to pick him up and bring him into town. The sheriff 's department will take over from here.”

“Okay. I'll tell him.”

Scott had volunteered to pick up Lester Garrison. In his moment of sympathy for Mrs. Garrison, he'd offered to serve as unpaid taxi driver for one of the two people in Blanchard County he'd rather not see again for the rest of his life.

Shortly before 2 P.M. the next day, Scott left the office. It was a cloudy day, and a few colored leaves clung to the wide variety of hardwoods that thrived in the rich soil and mild temperatures of the Piedmont. In the mountains west of Catawba, the bare trees would be farther along the cycle of the seasons. Scott let his mind drift to a place where huge poplar trees lined the hills of a North Carolina mountain cove. In winter, they looked like giant, gray candelabra.

Enjoying his daydream, he missed the road leading to Thelma Garrison's house but saw the crooked sign as he passed by. The house was easy to locate. Lester's truck was in the front yard.

Scott pulled into the yard and stopped underneath the massive oak tree. A nondescript brown dog charged off the front porch and began barking wildly. The animal circled Scott's vehicle, then began sniffing the tires. Scott rolled down the window and could hear a deep growl coming from the animal's throat. He hesitated. Scott wasn't normally afraid of dogs, but knowing Lester and Harold, he suspected the animal might have a tendency to bite first and refuse to apologize later.

Lester came out of the house and stood on the front porch.

“You can get out. Jack won't bother you now that I'm here.”

Scott opened the door and stepped to the ground. Jack came closer and sniffed his leg. The dog had never smelled a Bichon before, and he stopped at the place where Nicky had brushed past Scott's pant leg earlier that day. Satisfied that the intruder was harmless, Jack sauntered over and lay down under the porch. Scott walked gingerly up the steps. Through the open screen door he could see an old woman standing in the shadows of the living room.

“How is your leg where you got shot at the school?” Lester asked.

“It's better.”

“Ask him to come in,” Thelma called out to Lester.

Lester went back in the house, and Scott followed. Thelma Garrison was in the middle of the floor with white tissues in each hand.

At the sounds of Scott's footsteps, she asked in a shaky voice, “Are you Lester's lawyer?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Does he have to go now?”

“Yes, ma'am. He has to be at the sheriff 's office by two-thirty.”

Thelma had been crying. And Scott suddenly saw his client through a grandmother's sightless eyes. The rest of the world might view Lester as a bigoted, hate-filled young man whose future would almost certainly be worse than his past. Thelma Garrison's perspective was simpler—Lester was her grandson who was leaving home for prison. She remembered how he looked as a twelve-year-old before her eyesight faded for the last time. Her heart ached at the thought of what he faced.

“I'm sorry,” Scott said. And meant it.

Thelma sniffled. “Do you think he'll be all right? Lester is kind of high-strung.”

Scott didn't answer.

“Should he fix a sandwich to take with him?” she continued. “I don't know what they'll be feeding him in that place where he's a-going.”

“If he wants to take something to eat on the way, that would be okay.”

“I also told him to pack a small suitcase, but he didn't do it,” she added. “What do you think?”

“There's no use,” Lester said. “When I went to the youth detention center, they took everything away from me and put it in a plastic bag.”